


Mulled Wine

by vapemywave (hausofgreene)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, Cullen Rutherford Family - Mentioned, Developing Relationship, Gift Fic, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Pre-Relationship, adult man needs a nap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 14:46:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12684024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hausofgreene/pseuds/vapemywave
Summary: Home was not a luxury the war could afford; it could however, provide a warm kitchen and some mulled wine.





	Mulled Wine

**Author's Note:**

> For my love, who didn't ask for this but deserves it anyway.

As a child, the smell of tart red wine slowly stewing with sweet apples and the kick of spices signaled the start of winter; his mother would have already started repairing all of their thicker clothes, ripped during their frequent playing in the snow that piled up in Honnleath. Days got shorter, the nights seeming to stretch out into eternity, too much time in between dreaming and the cold winter sunlight. 

 

Cullen found himself standing in the war room, caught between a daydream and the next move, hands numb inside his leather gloves; oh, if his mother could see him now, commander of the Inquisition who still thirsts for the quiet comforts of a childhood home. The idea alone brought tears to his eyes:  _home_ , a warm bed and heavy quilts, forts of blankets strung up between their beds, the soft snores of his siblings, an almost silent snowfall against his window. 

 

Home was a luxury the war could not afford him. 

 

On the table, their pawns were set to make their moves, to snub out rebellions and track Corypheus' movements like scent dogs. Thousands of bodies at his command, thousands of lives hanging in the balance, people willing to spill their blood for the Inquisition. All they needed was one word from him, one letter by raven, to send them to their ends.  _Maker, what fool thought I could do this?_  

 

Whatever motivation he'd had regarding their plans was gone, replaced with a cold tiredness that made his bones ache. In the space between one breath and the next, Cullen made up his mind: no more planning would get done, at least not by him. With little conviction, he picked up the reports he'd need in the coming hours and trudged from the room. 

 

Almost ghostlike, he wandered the grounds of Skyhold, knowing that he should get back to his office and make the final reviews before the troops left. And yet, the idea seemed to float out of his head, leaving him standing on the battlements in a haze.  _Why go back?_  The daydream came back, warm and caring, smelling of mulled wine. 

 

If he tried, he would have had no recollection of how he got himself to the kitchens, only that he came into full consciousness when the warmth of the ever-lit hearth finally began to warm pinpricks into his cheeks. The room was empty, yet lacked the feeling of loneliness than most parts of Skyhold carried; dried good hung from the ceiling, shelves practically sagging with ingredients brought a homey atmosphere that quieted the drums of war in his head. 

 

_"Something warm, hm? A nip of wine to put my loves to sleep."_ His mother's voice echoed in his head, the daydream clouding his mind once again; a distant memory tickled the roof of his mouth, put weight on his tongue and warmth behind his eyes. It couldn't be too hard to make, would it? 

 

Bull entered the kitchen on quiet feet, knowing how the cooks would turn their fury toward him if they caught the Quinari sneaking in for late evening snacks. He wasn't prepared for the commander to be sitting at the table, head nestled in his folded arms, a pot of something dark and sweet slowly boiling over the fire. Curiosity took over, carried him softly around the table, taking a seat at the bench across from Cullen. The other man didn't seem to notice, eyes glazed and unfocused, usually keen senses deadened.  

 

Afraid of startling him or worse, Bull kept silent, watched the flames dance lazy reflections in the other's eyes, interrupted by even slower blinks of feathery lashes. This wasn't a man who commanded armies-this was a man exhausted from life, slipping into mental fog.  _A man lost in a lyrium-fueled dream_. 

 

Cullen came back into himself when a mug slid softly into the side of his arm, the imposing figure of the Iron Bull settling down across from him, his own mug humorously small in his hand.  

 

"If you want to talk, go ahead. Or you can just drink, whatever works." It came off friendly, an open invitation from one leader to another. Bull knew what this job could do, how it could wear someone down until they broke, a cycle of fixing everyone else and neglecting yourself. If the dark circles were any indication, Cullen walked a dangerous line.

 

Tears came to his eyes, visions in his mind's eye of his mother's dress, fabric dark and soft, an ocean of wool and wine. It was worlds away, a place he would never get back to, feelings of safety and a life without burdens; this war had changed him, destroyed hopes for a family with a house in the country, for routine and growing fat and old. "I can't keep doing this." 

 

"For now, you don't have to." With two fingers Bull pushed the mug against his arm, held it while the warmth seeped through the fabric of his armor, bloomed hot on his skin. "Right now you're going to drink your wine, and worry about not getting fruit seeds in your teeth." 

 

It pulled a chuckle out of the other, unfolding himself from his previous position into a slouch, moving the cup from his arm which had become almost uncomfortably warm. "I was speaking in seriousness." 

 

Bull hummed out of his nose. "I didn't doubt it, but neither was I; right now, you're not the commander, you're Cullen and you need a drink." His tone left little room to negotiate, while not loud or stern it was his  _leader_  voice. He used it with his crew, when he needed them to listen but not to scare them. 

 

They were quiet for a while, moments of stillness broken by the gentle scrape of metal on wood as their mugs moved. Bull was right, he needed a drink, needed to let his mind loosen and unload some of the burdens that come from leading armies.  

 

Against the back of his head, a migraine pulsed, as had become almost routine as the lyrium withdrawals overtook him. "I have been questioning my ability to lead. The risks are too great to be on the shoulders of a man who cannot keep himself sane." There was venom in his words, self-hate and doubt souring the taste in his mouth. "Cassandra was a fool to have trusted me." 

 

A snort made Cullen's head whip up, edges of his vision sparkling with the pressure of his headache. Bull had crossed his arms over his chest, regarding him with an unreadable look in eye.  

 

"If you're going to judge me-" 

 

"That isn't my job." Hard as stone Bull stared him down, and an unfamiliar feeling crept over the back of Cullen's neck. "You can't question why Cassandra picked you," the commander opened his mouth to retort and Bull shot him a glare. "and it's too late now. The war won't wait for you to get your shit together." 

 

He was up out of his chair before he knew it, blood rushing to catch up and leaving him feeling faint. "I can't lead them! Who is going to trust a lyrium addict with their lives!" Heavy thumping from his boots created a desperate rhythm, pacing back and forth in front of Bull like a caged animal. "I told Cassandra I would step down, that she was to monitor me and as soon as she thought I couldn't preform my duties-" 

 

"If she thought you couldn't lead, she would have already replaced you." Bull's calm tone set him off, a primal urge inside of him itching for a fight.  

 

"She is afraid of upsetting me!" In response Bull took a languid pull of wine; he was doing this on purpose, and it infuriated Cullen. "Are you even listening to me?" The roll of his one remaining eye was the last straw, as Cullen sent the mug of wine hurling at the wall, ceramic shattering and a dark stain of red blooming where it hit. 

 

His blood rushed in his ears, making his vision pulse with rapid heartbeats, a feeling of unsteadiness making his knees buckle. What strength he had seemed to be gone, adrenaline and anger subsiding into exhaustion.  

 

"Sit down." It was soft, that of a leader who knew when and how to use his voice, and Cullen fell into his seat once again. The weight of his armor seemed to double, pushed him into the chair as if to force him through it an onto the floor. Across from him, Bull's face had become as soft as his voice, no longer standing guard against Cullen's outburst. "That doubt is good for you, makes you a better leader, gets rid of the type of ego that would kill your men. You have to use it, let it keep you in check, but don't let it get into your head." 

 

"How do you propose I do that? My resolve is wavering, I don't know how long I can keep face." Behind his eyelids he felt a wall of tears building, heard the creak of wood as Bull shifted and when he spoke, his voice was closer as if he'd leaned across the table. 

 

"There are people here who are willing to help you, this isn't a burden you have to carry alone." A grunt, the scrape of wood against the floor, sounds of shuffling and something being filled with liquid. "If the Boss is allowed to ask for your opinions, you're allowed the same." 

   
Cullen opened his eyes when Bull sat down, two fresh cups of the mulled wine on the table. "May I ask you for council, then?" The smile Bull gave him was relaxed, a welcomed feeling of warmth filling his chest. 

 

A pair of boots swung up onto the table, Bull taking a lounging position in his chair. "I'm all ears, Curly." 


End file.
